


Mother Tongue

by jmflowers



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 16:12:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15777558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmflowers/pseuds/jmflowers
Summary: "I think there is a part of you not being expressed when you're not speaking your own language." - Evelyne BrochuDelphine attempts to make herself understood in a world that she is constantly having to translate.





	Mother Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> AN: This is my first soirée in the world of Orphan Black fanfiction. I fell in love with Cosima and Delphine years ago when the show first started airing, but my love has been reignited as I binge watch the entirety of the series. It's been a very long time since I've even written any fanfiction, so I hope this does these lovely characters a little bit of justice.
> 
> My inspiration was Evelyne talking at PaleyFest 2017 about there being a "part of you not being expressed" when you're not speaking your own language.
> 
> Written March 22, 2018

It's been hard to get your point across for almost a year now, ever since you stepped off that plane to begin this new chapter of your life. There is a swift line marking the change between before and after: your life in France and the one you lead now, in Canada.

It's been especially hard these past few months - to make sense of your thoughts, put them into words, then translate them into English so you can be understood. Something always seems to get lost along the way and you've found yourself feeling constantly on edge in response; flustered in a way that feels more foreign than you are in this strange place.

You'd been excited, at first: over the moon about the exciting adventure that lay ahead. Canada is a bilingual country, a place where you imagined you could work and live without compromising too much of who you are. But Toronto is different than you'd anticipated, more tourists and bustling city, less of the Français [French] you thought you'd be speaking.

It surprises you how much you crave it - that familiarity - now that you've met her.

But you keep on trying, keep translating as fast as you can in an attempt to avoid those drawn out pauses in conversation that were too frequent in your first months here. You try out new words late at night when you are alone, and even one day find yourself almost saying a few of them to her when she asks you why you've shown up at Felix's loft. Except, none of them ever feel right. They don't make sense in the way that you need them to.

All your life, it's been l'amour [love] and ma chérie [my darling/my sweetheart] and je t'aime [I love you]. Just the taste of the word love is strange and slightly nauseating. It's not quite the right translation, not quite the right phrase for how you feel about her. You are more than just love... you are amoureuse [in love]. It is big and all-encompassing the way you feel about her; so much, so soon, and yet you can't even seem to find it in yourself to feel embarrassed.

Because she is lazy kisses in the slowly rising sunlight and passionate embraces beneath the shelter of the stars. She is the careful travel of fingertips as you explore each others' hands, hips, hair... She is the warm body nestled beneath the covers of your bed and the cold expanse of sheets on the nights that she is elsewhere. You have grown accustomed to the easy routine of falling asleep beside her; the comfortable mornings waking up with your arms wrapped around one another.

You have completely U-Haul-ed she jokingly tells you one day, but that's not the right phrase either. J'ai besoin de toi [I need you], you want to tell her instead, je veux être avec toi pour toujours [I want to be with you forever]. "Tu me rends tellement heureuse," [you make me so happy] you whisper in her ear, afraid that even in a language she doesn't understand, too much could be too much.

Because she's learning the little things, the terms of endearment. She fumbles, yes, and thinks you are calling her a puppy once (when you don't have the heart to tell her it actually means poor little darling, because it's just so cute the way she smiles and chou [cabbage] just doesn't translate to Anglais in the way that you mean it). She pauses when you say something, trying to sort it out before asking for a translation. She doesn't space out as long when you say je t'adore [I adore you], now. She doesn't even falter when you greet her with a bonsoir [good evening] or wish her a bonne nuit [good night].

"Allez," [Let's go] you tell her some (most) mornings, your bag already slung over your shoulder, her clothing still scattered across the bed.

She giggles at your exasperation, a cheeky smile fluttering the butterflies in your stomach. "I told you..." she murmurs, reminding you of that first day she kissed you in her apartment in Minnesota.

"Let's order take out," she suggests from the couch one evening, her head leaned back against the cushions, legs slung over the arm rest. "Ça te dit?" [Sound good?] she tries out, clumsy in her pronunciation but beautiful in her intent.

You leap across the room at her and cover her body with your own. You press fervent kisses to her lips around her giggles, your smile wide when you pull away. "Sounds good," you whisper back, both of you blushing at this weird little franglais thing that keeps occurring within the safety of your home.

Except, you can't help but defy her. And she is strong in her convictions, so she pushes you away despite your best intentions. You infuriate her and she aggravates you, and still you fall back into each other as if you are âmes sœurs [soulmates]. You think you must be, the way your heart beats faster when you see her, the way you know the second she walks into a room; the way her fingers trail across your back, or down your arm, or along your chin each time you separate.

She is your coéquipière [teammate], now. You have forged an alliance. Elle est l'amour de ta vie. [She is the love of your life.] So it's only right that when the moment is finally the moment, when you finally feel ready to tell her exactly how you feel about her... it comes out in your mother tongue.

"Je t'aime," you tell her softly, hoping beyond all beliefs that a translation isn't necessary to convey this. That she can feel it in the spaces you fill together: in the gaps between your fingers, in the breaths between your lips, in the gentle touches and the grandiose attempts for her safety.

Her mouth opens, no sound for a moment before she speaks. Your mind is screaming out, so many more things you want to say to her, so many more words that are just right if you can say them in the correct language. Veux-tu être ma petite-amie? Mon amour sans fin? [Will you be my girlfriend? My endless love?]

"Is that why you didn't tell me that they were Kira's stem cells?" she asks.

Oui, your thoughts whisper, je ne peux pas vivre sans toi. [I can't live without you.] "Yes," you say instead, afraid that it is all still too much.

"Is that why, even before I got here, you gave Dr. Leekie my blood samples? Even though I told you not to?"

Je ne peux pas vivre sans toi. Je ne veux pas. [...I don't want to.]

"Cosima," you breathe, "It's your life." Je t'aimerai pour toujours. [I will always love you.]

Your head spins, your breath hitching in your chest. She must know how far your love for her reaches, how deep it sinks within you, how completely it engulfs you. She must see that everything you do is because you love her, not in spite of it.

"It's not just that, it's all of us. You have to love all of us."

Je vous aime tous. [I love you all.] "Then I love all of you." Je t'aime complètement. [I love you completely.] It's an agreement, an acquiescement, depending on how she takes it... depending how you mean it. Do you love all of them? Or all of her? Or is it both, like you have become - not all English, but not all French, either; that muddy middle ground of Franglais that you forged through together.

"Good. 'Cause if you betray us again I have enough dirt on you to destroy your career."

The laughter bubbles up from within your chest. Together, you are this conundrum of a relationship, this mess that you think is âmes sœurs. She is this beautiful woman who both drives you crazy and ignites a fire within you. She is everything you never expected, a dictionary of words you are learning to translate, a mountain of phrases you will one day whisper to her in any language you please.

She is the one, you know even now, the new defining line of before and after in your life. She has brought you peace amidst the chaos, calmed the flustered feelings that had seemed to be your new constant. You are slowly feeling less foreign in this brave new world; fewer things are lost in translation when you are with her. She is your destiné.

"And I love you, too," she says.


End file.
